Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 04 - Trash Out (18 page)

Sarah
’s blond ethereal appearance belied how tough she was.  She p
laced her hands on her hips and
surveyed the empty room.  “They really did clear everything out
,
”
s
he
touched a scuffed floorboard.
“They had some terrible furniture, I think from the Hospice store, brown plaid couches, that kind of thing.”

“Tom was probably pretty persuasive.
”

She nodded. “They weren’t local.”  As if that summed up everything, and in Sarah’s mind, it probably did.

“It seems odd to not have them here
,
”
s
he said quietly.

I nodded. I had those moments myself in Prue’s house. I keep thinking I’ll look up, and there will be Grandpa, whole and real, just coming in from
finishing
another
project
in the barn. But he doesn’t walk through the kitchen door anymore. I know
;
I’ve waited for him more than once.

She
noticed
my expression.  “You do
understand,
”
s
he rubbed her eyes.  “They weren’t the best grandparents in the world.”

“But they were all you had
,
” I finished.

“Yeah.”
  Her shoulders sagged and she suddenly looked much younger than her twenty odd years.  She really was alone
.
I considered her for a minute.  Maybe it
was
better to sell this outright and
let her
move on.  

“What do members of the Brotherhood have
to say
about your selling?”

“They
’re
on your side
.
They
all voted that the rental income would be good for me to have, but as
soon as the fire happened, all bets were off and they
told
me
to
sell.”

The Brotherhood of Cornish Men live to interfere with anyone who even pas
ses through Claim Jump, even me, so a vote as to whether Sarah Miller should sell her house was not
even
remotely surprising.  My face must have registered my thoughts.

“They aren’t so bad
,
”
Sarah
defended them.

I must not have looked sympathetic.

“Look
,
you have an interesting career, and you are good at it. Women like my grandmother or Mrs. Chatterhill never had careers, their influence
comes
only
through
the Brotherhood, or the PTA or the Theater Guild or Friends of the Library.
T
he
only
money they controlled
is
money they raise
through their own organizations, not through private industry.  So this, for them,
is really
it.”

“You’ve thought
a lot
about this.” I was pre
tty impressed with her insight.
Sarah Miller was soft
-
spoken
and
had a reputation for being
somewhat retiring
,
except when she was performing for Summer Theate
r. F
or years Sarah was the designated
ingénue
, as the average age in Claim Jump is about
fifty
, she
was a shoe in.  But
after her last performance as Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, she announced she was giving up the theater.  

“You didn’t give it up for Scott did you?”  I quizzed.

She laughed. “Are you kidding?  I
just
don’t need to escape on the stage anymore. 
Now I have an interesting
real
life.
”

Her new husband, Scott
,
wasn’t exactly a knight in shinning armor, but close enough. They ran the old library together and I had just sold them a house.  Indeed, her real life was just fine
; no additional drama was necessary
. 
We should all be so lucky.

I was so accustom to staying at Prue’s, in what I considered my second home, that I turned up the hill and was half way up Marsh
Avenue
before I realized my mistake.  I flipped a cautious U turn and headed back down to Main
S
treet where my new house stood big, bold and
directly
across the street from the local theater. 

I waved to
Debbie
,
the former lawyer, who did not wave back
a
nd
turned the corner to park the car behind the house.

Ben had
assured
me I could actually spend the night in the new master
bedroom a
nd the bathroom
floor was completely repaired and safe to walk on. 
His assurances aside, I always
approached the house with trepidation.  What would I
find?  Something repaired?  Or
a brand new problem that
necessitated
pulling out a wall, or excavating under the kitchen floor?
And if we did find something under the floor, would it be historically significant plumbing?  The remains of an 1856 out-house that according to city
ordinances,
could not be disturbed? 

I examined what I could see of the roof. 
It looked finished. 
Ben sent me photos of the completed
m
aster bath.
It looked like the bath tile (a lovely dark blue) was successfully installed and Ben didn’t
warn me against showering, so the tile and grout must be
cured. 
I picked up the dozen remaining shingles and carried them to the overflowing
trash can
.
I
pulled out
another carton of precious books and hauled those to the
kitchen counter.
I cautiously turned on lights as I moved to the front of the house.  The front door was intact and
locked,
the timer hasn’t turned on the front lights yet.  I walked through the hall. To my right was a formal parlor.  No movement or signs of wanton destruction.  To my left was the second parlor and stairs. 

It was just too good to be true.  Cautiously I flipped on the hall lights, the parlor chandelier
, a purple
Venetian
glass
extravaganza
, was still intact.  I almost relaxed.  Perfect.

Except for the gaping hole
at the foot of the stairs.

My phone buzzed.

“W
atch out for the hole @ stairs”
Ben texted.

I sighed and glared at the hole.  All I could see
below
was dirt.
And after falling through one floor, I was not tempted to approach this gaping hole to examine it anymore closely.
The short answer would be dry rot, the longer one,
termites
.
  And there was the wild card of plumbing that could only be reached through this particular entry.

I listened
,
but the place was dead quiet.
There wasn’t a worker in evidence.

The phone buzzed
again.  Ah, an explanation
from Ben
. 

“Did you get the fuchsia napkins?” 
It was Claire
Sullivan
. 
We were on such intimate terms that formal greetings could now be dispensed with. 

“Yes, they are already up at Emily’s
, do
you want to stop by and inspect them
?
”

“Can you bring them by tonight?  We
want to be
sure they match the bridesmaid dresses.”  She meant her
dress;
the matron of honor was
to wear
scarlet, which
is a more polite
name
for
fire engine
red.
 

“No, I can’t
,
” I
was a patient as
I could
be, given the caller
.  “I’m in Claim Jump.”

“What are you doing there?”

“Working
,
” I said pointedly.  “I can mail
a
napkin to you
,
so you can check on the color
.
I can
even
overnight it if you’d like.
”

She signed noisily. “No,
I’ll drive
up
to
Mrs. Stone’s house myself.
  Honestly. You knew we needed to match the dresses.
”

“But you aren’t wearing the dresses to the shower are you?”

“Everyone will be able to tell.”
Her tone was firm,
her point,
obvious.

I clicked off
.
  I was tempted to
call the contractor to inquire about the hole in front of my
stairs
, but resisted. I did not want to confuse, distract or piss off the lead contractor, a very important man who
se
name escaped me. I stared at the hole. 
Honestly, matching the napkins to an absent dress
,
h
ow obsessively controlling
.
My offer to mail the napkin was
hollow;
I still couldn’t remember where I left the shipping box.
Did
I have time to order more
?

I needed fortification
.
I retreated to the kitchen and retrieved an emergency carton
Ben & Jerry’s
C
ookie
D
ough
ice cream
.
Ice cream in hand
,
I
returned to the stairs.  Clutching the carton and spoon, I was able to
stretch
forward
over the hole
and could just grab the banister knob.  My fingers froze to the carton because I had such a grip on it. 
Praying that the banister could hold my weight, with a
heave I cleared the hole and jumped on the bottom stair.   

I felt I just made a huge commitment
:
p
ossibly to eating the whole pint of ice cream.  I didn’t think I wanted to jump over the abyss again
, at
least not in the dark.
And I certainly wouldn’t dream of wasting any of
the
ice cream.

My books were scattered over the far end of the
master bed
room, waiting to take their place in the built
-
in
bookcases
.
I took a spoonful of ice cream and regarded the books and empty shelves, but I was not up to the task.  I peeled off my clothes and hung them up
in
my new walk in closet, careful to not smear ice cream on anything.

Ben and I bought a new bed together
,
a king size sleigh bed with a curling head and footboard. It was
so
massive,
it had to be
winched
up through the
balcony
’s
French doors by crane.  I was almost sorry I wasn’t there to watch it, but then happy I wasn’t there, just in case there was damage or injuries
, or comments about
the size of the bed compared to the size of my, well, me.
I regarded its expanse and set down my treat
. I quickly
stripped off the
thin blanket
and
sheets
and shook
them out
over the balcony. 
D
ust and sawdust
rained on the
back
lawn
and patio
below.

I dusted off the top book in the
thirty
-
second
pile and brought it to bed
. 
It was only nine o’clock but the bed and ice cream beckoned
. 
Besides, I had committed to the upstairs.  Just as I was about to take another bite and open the book to chapter one, the phone
interrupted
me
.
I
t was a blocked call
er
.
W
ho is so important they need to have a blocked number
?  
I almost didn’t answer it, but
I couldn’t not answer it
, I was selling my house.